Chapter 14
Callum
I should’ve torn the bastard’s throat out. Wasn’t like I didn’t have the chance. Had him on the ground, chest heavin’, blood spillin’ like a feckin’ prayer across the concrete. Could’ve ended him clean. Neat. But I wanted answers. And the gobshite choked on his tongue before givin’ me a name.
Now I’m sittin’ in this godforsaken safehouse—no windows, one bare bulb overhead—starin’ at nothin’ and thinkin’ too bloody much.
She was nearly taken from me. Right in front o’ me. That’s not just an attack. That’s a declaration.
I rub a hand down me face, the calluses catchin’ on stubble.
Me knuckles are still raw from his jaw, dried blood flakin’ at the edges.
Seraphina’s face flashes through me head—the way she looked at me after.
Not afraid. Not pullin’ away. She looked at me like I was somethin’ more.
Or worse—somethin’ hers. And now I can’t feckin’ stop.
Didn’t sleep. Didn’t even try. I’ve been sittin’ in me flat since dawn, elbows on the desk, monitor light slicin’ through the dark like a blade.
Every few seconds, I replay the security footage I pulled—grainy black-and-white stills of the parkin’ garage, timestamped and blurred, but clear enough for me to count every frame between when she opened the door… and when that bastard lunged .
She screamed once. Sharp. Not shrill. Not scared.
Cut right through me. But what wrecked me worse—what hasn’t let me breathe since—was the way she looked at me after.
Not with fear. Not with gratitude. With fire.
Like she’d seen the monster, and didn’t run.
Like she recognised it. And that... that’s where I’m fecked.
The lad who came after her wasn’t some amateur.
Military precision. Combat-trained. Steel-tipped gloves.
A custom blade tucked in his boot like it was nothin’.
Moved like someone who’s taken lives and never bothered to remember the names.
He wasn’t there to rob her. Wasn’t lookin’ to make a scene. He was there to send a message.
And now I need to know who had the gall to scrawl their name at the bottom o’ that message.
Me fingers fly across the keys. No safehouse.
No panic room. Just me, me network, and a deep well of names I’ve been collectin’ since I was old enough to bleed.
Old contacts. Burned alliances. Favours owed.
And one image keeps flashin’ in me mind—etched in like smoke under the skin: a black tattoo curlin’ round the attacker’s wrist. A serpent devourin’ its own tail.
The Coil.
I haven’t heard that name in years. Thought they’d gone quiet. Didn’t think they were still takin’ contracts this side o’ the Atlantic. But someone brought them out o’ the shite-stained shadows and pointed ‘em at her. And that’s a feckin’ problem.
I lean back, crackin’ the tension outta me neck as I pull up an encrypted comm. I know exactly who to reach out to. Cormac Doyle. Former black ops. Now a broker of quiet violence and expensive silence. He’s not a mate. He’s a tool. A means to an end.
I type slow, every word chosen like a blade. Your people touched what’s mine. I want the name that gave the order. You’ve got one chance to give it to me before I come takin’ it meself. I don’t threaten. I promise. I hit send.
There’s a hum under me skin now. A pulse I can’t quiet. Not since last night. Not since she reached for me—not in fear, but to stop me.
Should’ve walked out the door and left her in the dark. Let her think I was just a lad with a convenient set o’ skills and a moody feckin’ temper. But she saw too much. And I can’t stop thinkin’ about the way she looked at me. Like I belonged to her. Like she wanted the monster.
She doesn’t understand what she’s drawin’ in. She’s not afraid of me. That should scare me. It doesn’t. It makes me want to burn the whole bleedin’ world down just to keep her safe.
I can’t leave her exposed. Not now. Not ever. But if I go stormin’ back into her life, fists swingin’ and teeth bared, she’ll bolt the door in me face and throw the deadlock for good measure. She’s stubborn. Proud. Hates needin’ anyone.
So I won’t offer her help. I’ll offer her options.
Protection disguised as practicality. Security dressed up as convenience.
Eyes on the street, under the guise of shared interests.
She’ll think she’s choosin’ it. Believin’ she’s still holdin’ the reins.
But by the time she realises she’s already let me in, I’ll be too deep to dig out.
And no one will touch her without spillin’ blood for the privilege.
I close me eyes, and the scene plays again—not the garage, not the aftermath. Before that.
Another night. Another alley. A different bastard.
He came at me fast, thinkin’ speed would give him the edge. Didn’t count on me movin’ faster. Didn’t count on me enjoyin’ the feel of bone breakin’ under me fists.
We clashed in the dark, fists ringin’ off wet brick. He slashed a blade across me side—I felt it, burnin’ hot through me shirt—but I didn’t stop. Drove him into the wall with a knee to the gut, then smashed me elbow into his temple so hard he dropped. Didn’t get up.
I don’t fight fair. Never had to. Never wanted to.
Learned young that rules don’t keep you breathin’. Instinct does. Precision. The will to go one bleedin’ step further than the next man. And I’ve gone further than most.
That’s what I’m made of. Not righteousness. Not revenge. Just survival, sharpened to a blade.
And right now, that blade’s aimed at anyone who dares come near her.
I should cut the thread. Burn the whole feckin’ thing down before it spreads. But I won’t. I never fuckin’ could.